I Must Be Gone And Live, Or

I Am Not Yet Of Percy's Mind, The Hotspur Of The North; He That Kills Me Some Six Or Seven Dozen Of Scots As A Breakfast, Washes His Hands, And Says To His Wife, 'fie Upon This Quiet Life! I Want Work.

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

As In A Theatre, The Eyes Of Men, After A Well-graced Actor Leaves The Stage, Are Idly Bent On Him That Enters Next.

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!

All Impediments In Fancy's Course Are Motives Of More Fancy.